The next time I see my boyfriend, I’m going to make sure I brush my lips really slowly against the soft skin in the curve between his neck and his shoulder. I’m going to run my hands up the back of his t-shirt and relish the warmth of his body through the cotton. I’m going to tell him ‘I missed you’ and mean it more than I have since early August, when I very rudely disappeared for two whole weeks in the early days of our relationship. On the morning I returned from that trip, we went to the pub for a couple of hours before I took him home to my place, and when I stood up to get my round in, I ran my fingertips down the back of his head – recently-but-not too freshly-shaved, feather soft against my skin. He later whispered to me that the touch had made his cock jump. So fuck it, yeah: the next time I see my boyfriend, I’ll want to do that again too.

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There are lots of things I enjoy about this time of year, but gifts aren’t one of them. I feel uncomfortable if people buy them for me (please don’t go to any trouble!) and I’m terrified of giving them. Although I occasionally have a flash of inspiration, or the time and ability to arrange a cool trip or activity, most of the time I end up panic-buying a present at the last minute that’s way over my tiny budget, because I didn’t have time to shop/think/make but I need this person to know that I care about them anyway. Even the cool things I do occasionally manage come with a hefty dollop of misery as I agonise over the fact that they will still fall woefully short. It never feels possible to buy a gift that is thoughtful enough, arrange an outing that’s fun enough, or write a poem in a card that’s meaningful enough to capture the weight of my love for this kickass person. But I tell you what I can do very well: gratitude.

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Remember a few weeks ago when Starcross wrote a fabulous guest piece about what it feels like to have someone come round your cock? Hot, right? And for those of us without cocks, a delicious insight into what it’s like to possess one. Honestly, inject this into my veins. At the same time as Starcross responded to my callout, the lovely Innocent Loverboy got in touch to answer my question about what it feels like to penetrate someone. And to have someone slowly sit on your dick. Can you tell I’m obsessed with these things at the moment? I just really want to know what sex is like from the perspective of someone with a dick. And asking sex bloggers feels like an excellent way to find out. Please give a warm welcome to ILB (that’s the Mastodon link – he’s also here on Twitter and here on BlueSky), who’s dropped by to give us his perspective on what it feels like to penetrate someone…

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Today’s guest blog was dictated by Bev (who is in her 70s) to her son (in his 40s), and I’ve tried to only very lightly edit the story as she told it to him. As you all know, I am constantly thirsty for guest blogs from older people about the sex they have and want, because we don’t get to see nearly enough of their stories in popular culture. If you took the lead from films and TV, you could be tricked into thinking that there’s an expiry date on sexual pleasure. You and I know that is not the case, and that it’s important (not to mention horny) to read and share experiences from people who don’t often get sexual representation in mainstream TV and film. To this end, please give a really warm welcome to Bev, and join me in sending her tonnes of love and best wishes for a speedy recovery so she can enjoy her post-chemo hook-up…

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If there’s one thing economists can agree upon it’s that if you reduce the supply of any given item, it’ll probably increase demand. Remember toilet paper at the start of the pandemic? The best way to increase demand is to drastically reduce the supply. So if you want me to truly beg you for a firm, solid portion of your exquisite cock, the best way to achieve that goal is to gimme that dick like it’s rationed.

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